Project: HYDRA
by Halcyon5
Summary: The history holobooks always taught the Human-Covenant War as a genocidal curbstomp. And it was. But what the holobooks never mentioned was how close to winning the war we actually came. ON HIATUS
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Earth, Sol System

UNSC HIGHCOM Facility Bravo-6, Sydney, Australia

1428 hours, 6/26/2552 (UNSC military calendar)

Lieutenant Lindsey Engen, ONI Section III, shuffled her papers. The rustling sound seemed unnaturally loud inside the small briefing room, the noise echoing off the solid oak tab le before being absorbed by the plush blue carpeting and the soundproofed walls. Lindsey separated the papers sliding the different sections into their respective manila folders.

It was ironic that for all the incredible technological advances 26th-century humanity had achieved, for all the amazing advancements in computers and Artificial Intelligence, the amount of paper used in day-to-day affairs had not waned in the least. In a strange twist of fate, the proficiency of AIs had actually made paper more necessary; in a world where cybernetic supercomputers could erase or fabricate entire documents at a single command, having an actual hard copy of a report or transcript was incredibly valuable.

That still didn't make the necessity of it any less annoying, Lindsey decided as she sighed, shuffling one of the folders once again. It was pure nervous habit now; all of her reports and papers had been so thoroughly organized that no amount of shuffling would make them appear any more organized. It irked her that, as a member of humanity's most feared and revered intelligence agency in centuries, as a young woman capable of things that most battle-hardened Marines would balk at, she was reduced to a nervous wreck at the mere prospect of an upcoming meeting.

Of course, to be fair, this wasn't just any meeting. This was an audience with the most important men and women in humanity's military, the people that had striven for nearly the past three decades to keep humanity from the brink of extinction; the UNSC Security Committee.

Lindsey swallowed. The next few minutes would likely decide the fate of her career. She would either go down in history as the woman who had helped to save humanity, or she wouldn't go down at all. No one would ever know her name, would ever know she had existed. Because the things that were discussed within this room, technically, never existed. She glanced around; the walls of the briefing room were two meters of layered steel and titanium, sandwiched together with sound-dampening fabrics and other absorbent materials. It was literally impossible to eavesdrop on the conversations that took place here. The atmosphere inside was thick, stuffy; the air heavy with the weight of thousands of secrets that would never be revealed, testament to the lengths to which humanity had gone to preserve its species.

The year was 2552, and for the past twenty-seven years, humanity, unified at last under the banner of the United Earth Government, was waging a vicious battle for survival against a hegemony of alien races known as the Covenant.

And they were losing.

Badly.

Since first contact with the Covenant in 2525, the UEG's military arm, the United Nations Space Command, had been valiantly fighting to keep the aliens at bay. It was an admirable effort, but ultimately futile. The Covenant's religious leaders had issued an edict declaring the human race heretics, and that every last man, woman and child in the galaxy was to be wiped out.

Their genocidal campaign had thus far been devastatingly effective. Technologically superior, numerically greater, and religiously inspired, the Covenant had been slowly destroying humanity's fledgling interstellar empire one stronghold at a time. Lindsey had seen what the Covenant did to a world once all resistance had been annihilated; "Glassing", a form of orbital plasma bombardment, had turned the surfaces of countless paradise worlds into raging seas of apocalyptic flame.

As the Outer Colonies were burned into memories and the Covenant threat advanced upon the strongholds of humanity's empire like an implacable juggernaut, the UNSC cracked down, imposing martial law and turning to ever more risky alternatives to stem the dread tide. The SPARTAN-II program, unveiled five years ago to the public, had been incredibly effective, and carefully-edited videos of Spartan supersoldiers gunning down hordes of alien soldiers had done wonders for civilian morale. But even the most gung-ho optimists among HIGHCOM (which by the current year, there weren't very many of left) recognized that the Spartans alone could not turn the tide. They were simply too few and too outgunned.

And so, the UNSC began to turn to more and more exotic alternatives. Billions of taxpayer credits were poured into weapons research and development, with the hopes of finding something, _anything_, that could stem the alien tide. Those projects often fell to the Office of Naval Intelligence's Section III to develop. Section III was the "special ops" portion of the Office, and through it had passed the SPARTAN-II Project, the NOVA Project, the MJOLNIR Program, and many other "black" programs that would never see the light of day.

With so many projects-many of which were the pets of high-up officers-competing for funding, one that hoped to have any chance of success needed to shine brightly in order to receive attention, and, by extent, funds.

Which made the situation Project: HYDRA was in even trickier.

Throughout it's nearly fifteen years of existence, Project: HYDRA was a Jekyll and Hyde to HIGHCOM; it held perhaps the most promise of any program save for perhaps the NOVA Project (which was in fact its chief competitor.) It nursed an experiment so deadly that, if it reached fruition, could possibly turn the war on its head in a matter of months. But while the NOVA project's power was nuclear in nature, HYDRA's focus was on the substances that had been killing men since the dawn of time: biological and chemical elements.

The theory was that, while the Covenant were obviously alien, they were similar to humans in many ways; they mainly breathed oxygen (with the exception of the Grunts, the short, methane-breathing aliens that made up the bulk of the alien ground forces), they got sick just like humans if exposed to the correct toxins, and most importantly, they breathed and ate and drank just like humans. Which meant they could be infected, just like humans, if only the right pathogen could be developed.

The concept was promising. But, like so many other high dreams and hopes, the path to reach it had been less than beautiful. When Project: HYDRA was first commissioned in 2537, the project's supervisors were immediately faced with three large problems; lack of funding, lack of personnel, and third and most importantly, a complete and total lack of understanding of the most basic workings of the bodies of the species of the Covenant.

The first two problems had been tricky, but surmountable. It was the third that posed the greatest threat to the program's continued sponsorship. It was impossible to develop an effective weapon without studying the effects it would have on an enemy, and since so few Covenant prisoners had been captured alive over the years of battle (due to the fanaticism of the alien religion), scientists and biologists alike were forced to rely on incomplete autopsies of alien corpses brought back from the battlefield and hypothetical conjecture-many of which were often mangled and shredded by bullets-and were thus left with a frustratingly incomplete picture of the aliens' bodily functions. Any weapon that came out of HYDRA would have to be universally lethal to _all _species of the Covenant in order to fulfill the parameters of its mission statement, and no such agent could be confirmed without complete case studies.

Needless to say, projects that didn't produce solid, tangible results weren't very popular with fiscal warhawks roaming the military-political landscape, eagerly seeking to scalp or kill any project that wasn't delivering in order to appropriate its funding to something that was. HYDRA itself had nearly gotten the fiscal axe four separate times over its existence, only saved in the end by eloquent pleas from the project leaders and from its ONI sponsors that its promise could not simply be left to shrivel and die. Each time, HIGHCOM grudgingly agreed to give HYDRA _one last go_, with warnings that _this time, results better be produced_.

Lieutenant Engen had been ONI Section III's liaison to Project: HYDRA for the past three years, and had gotten in on two of those hearings herself. And while she was only twenty-four, she had proved herself capable of making an extremely convincing case to the stubborn old admirals and generals that were intent upon securing HYDRA's funding for their own pet projects.

The latest hearing had only been five months ago, and one of the most vicious. It had taken nearly three hours to convince the impatient officers to give HYDRA one more shot, but she had been warned in no uncertain terms that this was the last time its funding would be extended. In these final six months, _something _would have to be delivered. What with Project: NOVA recently having become a smashing success and more military funding going to the completion of the Orbital Defense Grid over Earth to deter the Covenant as they began to rampage through the Inner Colonies, the pressure was on HYDRA to deliver.

And then, as if the universe had finally decided to toss the beleaguered men and women of Project: HYDRA a bone, they got their break. In March, in an operation that was an unexpected and tremendous success, a group of ODSTs had managed to successfully board a Covenant freighter and cycle knockout gas through the ship's life support systems, capturing upwards of three dozen live aliens; Grunts, Jackals, Elites, and Drones. HYDRA had pounced at the opportunity, managing to procure three aliens of each species for their own testing purposes before the other scientists and biologists began their feeding frenzy.

That was an unprecedented opportunity, and one that HYDRA's supervisors did not intend to waste it. The aliens were quarantined immediately and tests began of all the weaponized chemicals and biological substances, oftentimes with medical staff standing by. The aliens would be brought to the brink of death to confirm the lethality of a substance before being given an antidote and then allowed a few days of recovery before being tested again. It was an extremely cruel process, but none of the project personnel felt in the least sorry for the aliens that had done nothing but murder billions of humans over the past decades. Some even complained about being charged with the task of healing the aliens in order for more tests to be carried out, something that they felt went against nature.

A month into the testing, a nerve agent known simply as CRX was released into the testing chambers. CRX was one of the most promising agents that had been developed thusfar in the project's history. It was simple enough in makeup; a mix of methyl iodide, palytoxin, and methylated phosphorous trichloride reacted with sulfur to form a nerve agent that was extremely volatile. It was completely odorless and colorless, capable of being deployed from artillery canister shells as an area denial weapon, and animal tests had shown it to be as lethal as the legendary nerve agent VX.

It had killed the test subjects-Grunt, Drone, Jackal, and Elite alike-within thirty seconds of exposure, before the gas could be withdrawn and the medics safely entered into the room.

Immediately, the supervisors of Project: HYDRA had known immediately that this was the weapon they had been searching for over the past fifteen years. The success had been reported with poorly-disguised jubilance by Lindsey and the project supervisors to the UNSC Security Counsel, and a meeting had been requested to explore how best to further pursue the discovery.

Lindsey took a deep breath to calm her jittery nerves. That was not what she was worried about getting the Security Council to agree too; once they saw the video footage of the test subjects' reactions to the CRX, they would have no choice but to authorize it's use.

Her problem came in convincing them to give her plan for deploying it a green light.

Maybe she fidgeted again at the thought, but whatever it was, the other person in the room looked over at her from where he sat to her right.

"Relax, Lindsey," said Dr. Joseph Waters, Project: HYDRA Chief Supervisor. "I didn't think ONI operatives got stage fright."

Lindsey snorted in annoyance. Waters may have thirty years' experience overseeing the production and testing of biological and chemical weapons for the military, and possess three Doctorate degrees in microbiology, Chemical Applications, and Advanced Chemical Studies from the most prestigious universities on Earth, but that was his sole focus. Take him out of the laboratory and he was as socially awkward as a fish out of water, incapable of conversing with anyone other than his white lab coat-wearing brethren. His scratchy, nasally voice and the fact that he insisted upon wearing thick-rimmed glasses that he was constantly pushing back up his nose despite the fact that retinal correction surgery was cheaper than dirt these days often irritated those he was talking with to no end.

"I don't have stage fright," Lindsey said, trying to remain diplomatic. "I'm merely a bit apprehensive about trying to get the Security Council to agree to a plan that would require tremendous resources out of our already-depleted Navy."

"Well, if it's any comfort to you, I've got the same problem on my plate," Waters said.

"No, no you don't," Lindsey said in an exasperated tone. Waters began to speak, but she cut him off with an upraised hand. "They'll have no choice but to commission CRX once they see the results you've got. My end of the equation is going to be considerably more difficult."

Waters didn't reply to that, so Lindsey assumed she had scored a point. She sighed and leaned back in her chair, resisting the urge to check her watch.

The UNSC Security Council chose that moment to enter. The doors to the room slid open, allowing the men that guided a dying race to enter.

"Sirs!" Lindsey barked, immediately rising from her seat to attention. Beside her, Waters scrambled to do the same, the scientist obviously not accustomed to military traditions even this far into his career as he bumped a folder off the table in his awkward attempt to salute, spilling papers all over the floor. It took all of Lindsey's training to not roll her eyes.

As Waters scrambled to pick the papers back up and reorganized his affairs, Lindsey swept her gaze over the assembled officers, trying to discern any friendly faces among the midst.

Fleet Admiral Lord Sir Terrance Hood was the Chairman of the Security Council. Long on name but short on patience, the old Brit represented the UNSC Navy on the Council, and was widely regarded as the man that had kept humanity's inevitable extinction at arm's length for almost thirty years. He was a logical, practical man, and Lindsey felt relatively certain that she could reason with him when it came to accepting the Office's plan for deploying the CRX.

General of the Army Nicholas Strauss sat next to Hood; he was short and stocky, a bitter if competent man who resented the fact that much of the funding from his beloved Army had been redirected to the Marine Corps and other ONI projects, and had been one of Lindsey's staunch opponents in past battles for HYDRA's continued funding. He was belligerent and set in his ways; it would be tough work to convince him that this plan would be a good idea.

General Martin Narmonov took overall command of the Marine Corps, and was a good personal friend of Lindsey's. She felt relatively certain that she could count on his vote, especially since the Office's plan involved the use of Marine Force Recon troops.

General of the Air Force Mohammed Scintelli was next. A tall, dark-skinned man who rarely spoke, he had nonetheless been quite vocal in previous meetings about the fact that he believed HYDRA had been kept alive far longer than necessary, eager to secure funding for the Air Force's latest stealth bomber craft.

Finally, Colonel James Ackerson entered the room. A former Army officer, he was now the Security Council's ONI liaison. He gave Lindsey a nod as he took his seat, which she nearly imperceptibly returned. As a fellow ONI member, Ackerson was her most dependable vote on the Council.

He was also a hard-nosed, cold-hearted son of a bitch, but he was an SOB that was fortunately on her side of the argument on this matter.

She knew she could count on Ackerson's and Narmonov's votes; that left only one more that needed to be convinced in order to confirm the operation. Of the three remaining officers, Strauss and Scintelli were likely lost causes. She would have to focus all her charm and guile on Admiral Hood.

"As you were, lieutenant, doctor," Hood said as the Security Council took their seats, and Lindsey and Waters quickly obeyed.

There was another few seconds of silence as the men shuffled through the papers and reports in front of them, running their eyes over the documents with jaundiced eyes.

"Lieutenant," Hood said after a small amount of time. "It appears that congratulations are in order. HYDRA has finally proven itself to be something other than a drain on our coffers, has it not?"

"Yes, sir," Lindsey replied, careful to keep her voice neutral. "The success has gone beyond even our wildest dreams at this project's conception."

"Alright, enough with the love affair," Strauss growled, staring down his long, hooked nose. "I have obviously received in the summons to this meeting word that HYDRA," –he said the word like it was some sort of contagious disease-"has produced results, but other than that, the details have been…_sparse_…to say the least. Other than the typical ONI SecThree skullduggery, what, exactly, has happened here, lieutenant?"

Bristling at the unveiled jab at the Office, Lindsey saw Colonel Ackerson open his mouth to begin a blistering tirade against the Army officer. Before the hot-blooded officer could say something that would likely prove insulting and would almost certainly cripple their already thin chances with the Security Council, Lindsey deftly maneuvered back into the conversation. "Once you see the evidence we have collected, I believe you will be of a different opinion, sir," Lindsey said.

Strauss gave a noncommittal grunt and leaned back, crossing his arms across his chest. Next to him, Scintelli's expression was inscrutable as he scanned the documents before him.

"Well, then," Hood said. "If it's not too much of an inconvenience, doctor, may we hear the results?"

"Oh, um, of course, sir!" Waters stammered, scrambling to his feet as he dug through his mounds of documents before locating the one he was looking for. Holding it up in front of him as if he was studying a test tube, he began to read, "As you are aware, the HYDRA project created and considered numerous agents-nerve and chemical-throughout our research. CRX was the last of our creations-a bit of a dark horse, I might add-and though we knew it was to be extremely lethal, we did not expect it to be as fast-acting upon the aliens as it was."

Waters looked up from the paper for a moment, glancing around to see if the officers were still paying attention. Satisfied that he was still the center of attention, he continued. "CRX has a relatively simple chemical makeup and manufacturing process-which you can read further about in the documents provided to your staff-and is extremely stable until deployed.  
>"As CRX is a nerve agent, its attack is focused upon the nervous systems of the aliens. And while their nervous systems are different from ours, the difference is not so much as to render CRX impotent. In fact, recent research suggests that the Grunts may prove even more vulnerable to the agent, as the methane in their bloodstreams can bond on four carbon sites with the CRX molecules, thus allowing it to be transported through their bodies quicker-"<p>

Waters' mini-biology lecture was cut off by a poorly-disguised cough from Scintelli. Waters took the hint and switched topics back to what the Council wanted to know.

"Um, the, uh, the median lethal dose for humans has been determined to be approximately four hundred and twenty-two point six-three micrograms through skin contact-LD50-and fifteen to twenty micrograms per minute through inhalation-LCt50. While those numbers differ for the different species of the Covenant-which you can also read further about in your summaries-no known species that we have been able to test on have shown resistance beyond six hundred LD50 or eighty LCt50."

Waters was met with blank looks from the majority of the council, so he quickly followed up the chemistry talk with, "It's extremely deadly. Within five seconds of exposure to a lethal-size dose, either through skin contact or inhalation, muscular twitching and spasms begin. By twelve seconds, such spasms are body-wide and uncontrollable. Contractions will increase until death as the agent breaks down the nervous system with exponential speed. Furthermore, neural commands to the heart and lungs become disrupted, resulting in cardiac arrest and dry drowning when the lungs can no longer extract oxygen from the air."

The room had gone deathly quiet, all of the men slightly in awe at the brutal nature of the weapon being described to them. Even Strauss and Scintelli appeared grotesquely fascinated.

Waters, meanwhile, appeared to have gained confidence as he reported the deadly results of his tests. He stood taller and stronger than he had ever appeared to Lindsey, and his voice rang out with a clarity that she had seldom heard.

"By twenty seconds of exposure, all neural communication in the body has been destroyed," Waters continued, "resulting in complete failure of all internal organs. Moreover, alveoli breakdown results in fluid buildup within the lungs. If the subject is not dead by then, they will literally drown in their own lungs."

Waters glanced around. "Would you like to see the video footage?"

There was silence for a moment, and then Hood gave a wordless nod. Even the jaded old admiral appeared shaken by what had just been presented.

Waters produced a remote form the sleeves of his lab coat, turning on a video screen mounted on the wall. The image resolved into the view of a security camera in a small, white cell. A single Elite stood in the center of the cell, pacing endlessly in a circle as it attempted to find a way to kill itself, likely seeking to regain its honor.

Its wishes were granted, however, as a small ticking timer appeared on the bottom of the screen.

"The CRX has just been released," Waters announced. Since the agent was colorless, it was literally invisible to the naked eye.

Its effects, however, were more than visible. The Elite abruptly stopped its pacing, staring at its limbs in shock as they began to shake and tremble uncontrollably. Seconds later, the spasms grew with further speed and force, causing the alien to fall to the ground as it thrashed back and forth, its body curling and contorting into grotesque positions as its nervous system went haywire. Lindsey fought the urge to avert her eyes as she questioned whether even a genocidal alien deserved a fate as hellish as this.

At ten seconds into the video, the Elite's contortions were even more vicious, its mandibles snapping and its eyes bulging as it found it could no longer breathe. Outside, someone could be heard shouting, "Stop the test, stop the test!"

But it was far too late. The Elite's tortured contractions abruptly ceased, its head lolling limply to the side. Waters paused the video, the frame freezing to show the now-deceased alien curled on the floor.

"At twelve seconds, the subject experienced fatal cardiac arrest in both hearts," Waters said, his tone cold and callous. "Attempts at resuscitation failed, and even had they succeeded, the subject's nervous system was so deteriorated that clinical death would still be in effect."

Once again, the room was deathly silent as the assembled officers began to consider the tremendous effect this could have on the war. A weapon of this caliber could be used as both an area denial and a spaceborne weapon, capable of being launched into Covenant ships with vacuum-proof capsules. Its potential uses were practically endless.

"Would you like to see the videos of the other test subjects?" Waters asked.

"I…do not think that would be necessary," Hood said, his voice quavering slightly. "It appears that this has been successful beyond any predictions. At this point, I believe the Council will have no choice but to authorize its use." Hood looked around. "The only problem remains, how will we test and deploy it? You have thought of that contingency, lieutenant?"

"Of course, sir," Lindsey replied, taking a deep breath. This was where the hard part began; she had to convince the Security Council to agree to a plan that was extremely high-risk, with a potential to be crippled before even launched. "With your permission, the Office of Naval Intelligence is proposing Operation: YPRES, which will allow both a full-scale, combat-scenario test of the agent, along with the capability to do significant harm to the Covenant war machine while doing so."

"Well by all means, lieutenant, show us," said Narmonov, leaning back in his chair and shooting Lindsey a small wink.

"Thank you, sir," Lindsey said. She retrieved the remote from Waters and tapped a button, switching the display over to a photo of a small planet, covered with white.

"This is footage from an ONI prowler last August, showing a planet known as Argus IX," she said, "the ninth and the only habitable planet of the Fermion Serpentis System. It is an arctic world, far enough from the planet's sun so that it is cloaked in perpetual winter." A file appeared next to the planet, showing relevant climatic and geographic data.

"And also," she said, tapping a button and causing the view to zoom into an equatorial belt of mountain range and bringing into view a valley with a cluster of pink Covenant structures, "the site of numerous Covenant encampments."

The view switched to footage of another base, and then another, and then another, many centered in the same mountain range. "While the prowler's recon run was cut short by the appearance of a Covenant resupply force, we believe that the Covenant have found something on this world, something that may greatly aid them in their quest for our annihilation. There is a significant Covenant troop presence on this world, which they may use as a staging area to further assault the Inner Colonies, since the Fermion Serpentis System is just outside them.

"With the Security Council's permission, ONI SecThree is requesting permission to do a 'dry run' as it were, of how a wartime CRX deployment would play out. In-depth details are presented in your briefing reports, but here are the basics. SecThree would obtain a vessel and crew, as well as a handpicked security force, and embark several hundred metric tons of CRX onboard. Our primary objective would be to selectively deploy the CRX around the various Covenant encampments, but if we are compromised, the extra supply of the agent should prove enough to circulate through the atmosphere and deny the planet to the Covenant for several decades to come. The relative successes or failures of this mission would be reported back to this Council for further consideration upon its completion."

The room was silent for a moment, and then Strauss spoke up. "You mentioned 'handpicked troops.' What exactly do you mean by that?"

Lindsey took a deep breath. "I cannot answer that question directly, as there are many issues yet to be considered in the personnel department, but SpecOps personnel from some or all branches will most likely be involved."

"And what about transportation?" Hood asked, leaning forward. "You said that you would 'obtain' a vessel. The complaints from ONI have been ceaseless lately about how depleted their prowler fleet is, and I can't imagine SecThree taking a simple bulk freighter on a mission such as this. Similarly, our naval assets have been severely depleted over the past few years.

"I guess my point, lieutenant," Hood said, steepling his hands, "is that our options for a mission such as you are proposing are quite limited. What, exactly, did you have in mind?"

Lindsey closed her eyes briefly and drew in a breath, chewing on her lower lip as she considered her response. This was where things got dicey. However, the orders from her superiors at SecThree had been clear, and she could feel Ackerson's eyes boring into her from across the room as he waited expectantly for her response.

"Well, lieutenant?" Scintelli asked. "Cat got your tongue?"

Lindsey forced down a flash of irritation. "My superiors at ONI believe that a _Sentinel_-class would be sufficient."

For a moment, shocked silence pervaded the room, and Lindsey closed her eyes tight as she waited for the inevitable firestorm to erupt.

She didn't have to wait long.

The room exploded in conversation as the officers leapt up from their seats, yelling at her, at ONI, at each other, and at anyone that would bear their ire. Through the whirlwind of sound as everyone attempted to talk over each other, Lindsey was able to catch snippets of their cries.

"…this is ridiculous! Has the Office gone mad?..."  
>"…those are still in the prototype stage!..."<p>

"…the first model is barely out of the shipyards! We've still got to test it!..."

"…and I was so close to thinking this would actually work…"

"Gentleman, please!"

The sudden yell was so loud and abrupt that it cut through the squabble like a knife, the officers looking around with surprise to see who had done it.

Colonel Ackerson was sitting calmly back in his chair, the only man not currently on his feet. Lindsey was surprised to see him so calm; the Ackerson she knew would have been the first one into the melee in defense of the Office.

"If we can discuss this rationally, and not yell at each other like a group of children?" Ackerson suggested, and grudgingly, the rest of the panel took their seats.

"Thank you. Now," Ackerson said, folding his hands together in a pose that made him appear rather scholarly, and Lindsey tried unsuccessfully to hide a grin. This, she knew, had to be the beginning of an extremely well-rehearsed and polished speech, no doubt prepared in anticipation of this very topic being broached.

He might be an insufferable bastard, but at least he was a prepared insufferable bastard, she thought with a grin.

"Now, your questions of the inclusion of the _Sentinel_-class destroyer are more than credible," Ackerson began, his voice clear, calm, and well-modulated, like that of a politician. "We all know that the prototypes have yet to fully tested. They show great promise, and if we can mass-produce them, they could very well help turn the tide of this war. It would be foolish to risk the first model on some dicey venture."

Lindsey frowned, beginning to wonder what Ackerson was truly trying to do.

"However," Ackerson continued, "I ask you to please consider the potential fruits that we could reap were this operation to succeed. The successful battlefield deployment of CRX could both turn the tide of the ground war irreversibly in our favor, and work wonders for the morale of our troops were we to develop a superweapon that our own soldiers could be immune too with the proper equipment. It would be a game-changer on a level we have never seen before. And the _Sentinel_-class of destroyers, even the prototype, is the only ship we could currently spare that would provide the greatest chance of allowing such an operation to be successful."

The room was silent for a moment, and then Strauss began to open his mouth in preparation to lambast Ackerson's plan once again. Before he could, however, General Narmonov butted in. "I motion to move further consideration of Operation: YPRES to a vote."

"Seconded," Ackerson said immediately, grateful for the sudden support from the Marine Corps officer.

Hood blinked, surprised at the quickness of the motion. Nonetheless, the motion had been seconded, so it had to be considered. "Very well. Are there two in opposition that wish to speak?"

Strauss's and Scintelli's hands shot up almost immediately, and Hood lent them both thirty seconds, in which they both waxed eloquent about the numerous holes in the plan. Lindsey ground her teeth, wishing she could interrupt but knowing that it would be suicide to do so.

Finally, their time was up, and Hood was forced to call the vote.

"Those against?" he asked, and Lindsey felt her gut be seized by an iron vice. This was where the fate of the operation would be decided, whether it would be allowed to go forward or whether they would allow humanity's best hope to die a quiet death.

Strauss and Scintelli raised their hands.

Hood did not.

Lindsey felt a grin spread across her face. He had bought it. He had trusted her information. She felt a surge of exhilaration and fought the urge to click her heels together. He could be abstaining, she knew, but that was almost impossible. There was no way Hood would abstain from such a crucial vote.

"Those in favor?" Hood said, and Narmonov and Ackerson immediately raised their hands.

Hood looked around, his measured gaze surveying each face around the table before finally, slowly, raising his own hand.

Lindsey felt her knees go weak with relief, and she collapsed back into her chair for support.

"The motion carries," Hood announced, his voice uncharacteristically hoarse, as though the vote had sapped him of his energy. "The Council will further consider the operation with representatives from ONI at a later time. This meeting is adjourned."

With looks of rage on their faces Lindsey thought were reserved for those whose families had just been murdered right in front of them, Strauss and Scintelli swept out of the room, not even taking their briefing papers as they glowered darkly at the remainder of the Council before not-so-quietly shutting the door behind them.

Hood and Narmonov left next, the latter offering a few words of congratulations and confidence while the former gave Lindsey the details of what she should report back.

And then Ackerson came over to her, a small smile on his face. "Good job, lieutenant," he said. "You may have just changed the course of human history."

Lindsey allowed herself a weary smile in return. Mentally, she felt as if she had just gone through a boxing round with an ODST.

"Thanks, sir," she said. "Although, I believe it was your speech that moved Hood over to our side."

Ackerson smiled. "Hood was on our side to begin with. I talked to him beforehand, explained the situation, and he agreed that this could likely be our Dunkirk moment in the war."

Lindsey frowned, straightening in her chair and smoothing out her skirt. "What? Then why didn't you call a vote sooner? We could have avoided that entire argument."

"Lieutenant," Ackerson said, "sometimes psychological warfare is the best way to defeat your enemies. As a member of SecThree, I'm sure you're aware of that." He looked off into the distance and sighed. "I had hoped that I could win over Strauss. Scintelli's a lost cause, but Strauss…I can relate to that man. He sticks to his guns and doesn't back down. Determination," he said with a look at Lindsey. "I admire that in someone. Still, I thought I could convince him. Unfortunately," he sighed, "it appears I will have to find…other methods…to convert him to my camp."

Lindsey frowned. But before she could ask what, exactly, Ackerson was referring to, he was already shaking her hand. "Once again, good job, lieutenant," he said. "I couldn't have done it without you. Good luck, Semper Fi, and all that jazz. I'll see you at the Tower."

And before she could say another word, he was gone.

"Friendly bugger," Waters muttered as he began to reorganize his papers.

"You have no idea," Lindsey said softly, staring at the door as it closed behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Reach, Epsilon Eridani System

Eposz Military Wilderness Training Preserve, Eposz

1333 hours, 7/4/2552 (UNSC military calendar)

The northern continent of Eposz was by all accounts one of the most scenic portions of the planet Reach. Its massive swathes of rugged, snow-capped mountains, deep and mysterious cedar and pine forests, and icy-cold mountain streams made its breathtaking vistas quite the destination for hikers and backcountry-sports enthusiasts the galaxy over. And while its grounds were strictly off-limits to any civilian activity, the Eposz Military Wilderness Training Preserve in the Ridgeback Mountains east of New Alexandria was no exception to that rule.

However, for the line of green-clad UNSC Marine Corps Force Recon recruits that were winding their way down the treacherous, rocky path that descended the backside of Mount Terroson (or Mount Terror, as the recruits called it), the stunning beauty of the scenery all around them was likely the last thing on their mind.

No, their minds were more focused on dodging the multitude of potentially deadly obstacles in the trail in front of them. The small part that wasn't focused on preserving their current body status of all four limbs and all ten fingers and toes was likely devising numerous profanity-laced schemes on how best to murder the sadistic DI who was making them run in full combat gear and carrying eighty-pound backpacks full of rocks over the treacherous countryside.

The focus of their ire was currently pointed at the man running at the head of the column. Gunnery Sergeant Isaac Weatherby ran steadily down the mountainside, skirting over the rocky screes and sharp boulders with a natural dexterity and the endurance that came from years of intensive training while he simultaneously bellowed out the time-honored call-and-answer cadence of the UNSC Marine Corps:

"Well don't weep for me, momma, I'm off to join the Corps!"

"And there they'll make me strong and proud, to win our brothers' wars!"

"They'll give me courage, momma, and steel in my spine!"

"And when I return they'll point and say, 'There goes a true Marine!'"

Isaac grinned as the recruits finished the final line, intermixed with the gasps and groans of the exhausted men and women. They were nearing the final descent, now, down the last eight hundred feet to the flatter, easier trails through the woods below.

Not that those final eight hundred feet were any easier than the rest of the mountain had been; running in full combat gear along with the eighty pounds of rocks on their backs was one of the most brutal exercises possible, especially in the full sun of the Eposz summer. Mount Terroson was only about five miles high-diminutive when compared to the towering brethren that surrounded it-but its rocky, brutal terrain made sure that by the end of the knee-pounding ascent and descent, the recruits would have more than enough reasons to be sore.

But no one complained. Or at least, if they did, they kept it to themselves. Force Recon troops were the elite of the Marine Corps, a title craved by all those in the training. After months of conditioning, the one hundred men and women of Class 4322 knew that the end, the graduation, was near. On July 15th, thirty Marines would be chosen to be inducted into the 5th Force Reconnaissance Company, 2nd Reconnaissance Battalion, 12th Marine Division. The decision was made at the very end of training, so that every Marine had to stick through it to the end, even if they didn't make the cut.

It was all part of the brutal, almost cruel, training regimen of the UNSCMC's Force Recon troops. From live-firing exercises to physical training that would defeat all but the strongest, most determined of soldiers, from week-long tactical drills in the forests and mountains to simulated nighttime raids, the Force Recon training regimen was designed specifically to weed out all but the most qualified of individuals. Hence, the seventy-percent attrition rate. They were the tip of the spear, the cream of the crop, the men and women that would be tasked with infiltrating enemy beachheads or determining troop strength through vital intelligence-gathering missions. Such tasks demanded the best of the best, and the DIs of Camp Reuter were not about to compromise any such future operations by sending unqualified soldiers out into the field. If that required training that could be argued as cruel and unusual punishment, then so be it.

The Covenant were certainly not going to stop simply because their human adversaries were feeling a little physical discomfort. If that was the case, then neither would Gunnery Sergeant Weatherby.

Once the final descent had been completed, the recruits practically sighed with relief as their combat boots hit the dirt of the trail that ran through the forest back to Camp Reuter. From here on out, about three more miles, the terrain was basically flat, with a few rolling hills. Easier, by all accounts.

Except, of course, the account of Gunnery Sergeant Weatherby. If the terrain itself was easier, then something else would have to become more difficult.

"Alright, recruits!" Isaac bellowed. "Double-time it back to the camp! Let's move!"

There was a series of groans from some of the soldiers at the prospect of having to force their burning limbs at an even higher speed, but the vast majority of them stayed silent, having no breath to waste on complaints.

And even if they had breath to waste, there was really nothing to complain about. Isaac was running the course right alongside them, carrying the same weight and working the exact same amount, perhaps more, since he occasionally dropped back to encourage the stragglers.

Isaac himself was feeling a little tired, but he could never let it show to the recruits. For their training to be effective, their DI had to have a place in their minds as an almost holy figure: never faltering, never tiring, never showing any weakness of any sort. He needed to be the man that they all looked up to and hated in equal measure, the man who they would shoot in the back of the head and the man that they would obey in an instant in the midst of a firefight. It was a strange paradox, but it worked. Many veterans often traced their survival back to the abuse-verbal and physical-heaped upon them by their DIs.

Isaac slowed his pace, allowing the recruits to continue along at double-time pace while he fell towards the back and the stragglers, easily identifiable by their pained grimaces and faltering stride.

Isaac couldn't really blame them; the Force Recon training regimen was enough to make anyone break down, and they should be proud that they had made it this far. That having been said, the Force Recon companies simply had no place for the weak.

Selecting one of the straggling individuals, a tall, dark man by the name of Perkins, Isaac fell into step beside him, seeing if he could gauge the man's situation. The sweat pouring off his face was normal, but his limping gait pointed to a possible injury sustained during the descent from Mount Terror.

"How're you feeling, recruit?" Isaac asked, his voice gruff, but not overly so. This, he knew, was not the time for bluster and curses; all of that was just so much hot air to an injured man. No, this was the time to take a more gentle approach, see if he could find out what was ailing the recruit.

Perkins visibly winced as he put his weight on his right foot, and Isaac took that as another sign pointing to injury. "I don't know, drill sergeant," he managed to gasp out between breaths. "I think I might've rolled my ankle on the way down." That statement was confirmed as he grimaced again, and his weight became more pronounced. "It hurts like nobody's business."

"Can you run?" Isaac asked bluntly. "Don't be afraid to say 'no'; we don't need you too busted up to perform tomorrow. We can always call in a 'Hog, take you back to base."

"No, sir," Perkins gritted out, his teeth tight together with determination. "I can run, sir."

Isaac nodded, impressed. Not many men had the mental toughness to run through such an injury. "Alright, recruit," he said. "Just do your best; I'll get you a pass to the doctors when we make it back, see if they can do something for you."

Perkins merely nodded, too tired to speak further as he continued to suck in breath after breath.

Isaac pulled back away, the rocks in his backpack beginning to feel heavier as he continued to jog. He was impressed with Perkins; physical strength was something that could be gained, but mental toughness could not. One either had it or didn't, and it was Isaac's job to separate those former from the latter.

Now that he had ascertained the nature of Perkins' ailment, he glanced round at the other stragglers. All bore looks of pain, but none of them possessed the telltale limp of an injury.

They would just have to suck it up.

Transitioning back to the stereotypical DI, Isaac put on a burst of speed, the weariness in his legs and back falling away as he began to berate the remainder of the recruits. "Come on, you half-wits!" he bellowed. "You call that running? My grandmamma could run faster than you lot in her rocking chair!"

"So could we if we didn't have these three tons of rocks on our backs," grumbled a recruit near the front, quietly but no enough to escape Isaac's sharp hearing.

"Who was that?" Isaac roared, although he already knew the answer based upon the man in the front that suddenly tried to duck back into the midst of the pack. Isaac sped up, coming to match the group's pace when he was abreast with the perpetrator, a one Private Mitch Alley.

"So, Mitch," he said, "think this is all too much? Am I being too hard on you poor little maggots?"

"No, sir," Alley replied between ragged breaths, keeping his gaze resolutely focused on the man in front of him as he answered. If he had been caught, he was already in deep shit. There was no point in making it deeper by attempting to argue with the Gunnery Sergeant.

"Damn straight," Isaac growled. "Remember one thing, private; military intelligence is not a contradiction in terms, but _light infantry_ sure the hell is!"

He finished the last phrase with a shout to make sure everyone heard it, and then continued with his dissection of the private. "Now, since you don't thing I'm being too hard on you, you won't object to leading the class back into camp, will you, now?"

"No, sir," Alley gasped, although his facial expression and tone suggested otherwise.

Not that Isaac cared. "Well, then, get up there and lead your comrades home!"

With a groan of agony as his burning limbs were forced into action once more, Alley half-ran, half-staggered his way to the front of the group, where he ran along with a look of pure agony on his features as he gasped for breath.

Ignoring the burn in his own limbs, Isaac ran up alongside him, turning to jog backwards so that he could berate the rest of the column. "You all are a lot of worthless rejects!" he bellowed. "Back there, Recruit Perkins has rolled his ankle, and yet he still runs with less complaint that the lot of you!" Isaac glanced to the side, saw the sign on a nearby cedar that marked the two-kilometer point back to camp.

"And since Recruit Alley thought he knew better than me, he has questioned my authority! And if my authority is questioned by one of you, it is questioned by all of you! Recruits! Triple-time back to base, now!"

That got a response, a motley mix of agonized groans and curses directed at Alley. Isaac turned around quickly and hid his grin; their anger at Alley would serve as a brief motivator, but it would be gone quickly, as soon as they reached camp and they were dismissed for lunch.

The remaining two kilometers went by quickly to Isaac, but were likely a short eternity to the recruits. The woods thinned out, revealing the sprawling military complex that was Camp Reuter. Never before had plain instacrete walls and guard towers seemed so welcoming.

Isaac led the column of exhausted soldiers up to the southern gate, their progress tracked by security cameras and sensors all the way up to the threshold.

"Class 4322, returning from wilderness run," Isaac announced, the words a mere formality. The gate doors slid apart, and Isaac led the recruits the final few hundred meters to the parade ground in front of the main barracks units.

They stood before him in parade rest formation, fatigues sopping with sweat and muscles burning with fatigue, their expressions a strange mix of defeat and determination. Isaac noticed with particular satisfaction that Perkins had managed to claw his way back up to the rear of the pack, and stood among his fellow recruits without shame.

For nearly a full minute they stood there in the full heat of the sweltering sun, their gazes focused straight ahead as Isaac paced back and forth in front of them, examining their ranks, too exhausted or afraid to speak up and ask for a drink or rest.

Isaac hid a smile. These were good soldiers.

"Dismissed for lunch break," he growled. While the recruits were not dumb enough to say anything and risk incurring the gunnery sergeant's wrath, a palpable wave of relief swept through them, and more than a few shoulders slumped in exhaustion. "Re-assemble at the firing range at 1500 sharp with your necessary gear. Understood?"

"Yes, drill sergeant!" the recruits bellowed as one.

Isaac nodded in satisfaction. "Dismissed."

The weary recruits gratefully filed away to the barracks to dispense with their gear and rucksacks, while Isaac sighed and rubbed his forehead. Now, while they got an hour of quasi-relaxation to eat lunch, he got to head back to his office and type up reports.

Joy. He never thought he'd find himself envying the recruits he was training, but at this particular moment, it was unavoidable.

_The first thing I need to do, _he thought, shading his eyes as he glanced up at the cloudless sky, _is get out of this blasted sun._

Isaac's office was located in the base command post, a squat, two-story building near the center of the camp. He stepped into the lobby, relishing in the cool breeze of the air conditioning.

"Have a fun jog this morning?" asked a voice to his left, and Isaac turned to see Staff Sergeant Jason Amordez standing at the reception desk, waiting for some document from the printer nearby.

Isaac grinned. Jason and he were old friends, having grown up together on Mars.

"Quite," he said, running a hand through his hair and feeling it slick with sweat. "The recruits just loved it."

"I'm sure," Jason quipped. "Rumor has it that you're quite the tyrant to those poor little kids."

"Oh, please," Isaac said. "Half of them are older than I am."

Jason shrugged. "True enough."

The two NCOs made small talk for another minute or so before Jason's doc finally printed out and Isaac left, pleading a report that needed finishing on his office computer. He headed down the hall where all the base NCOs had their offices, coming to a stop before the door to room 11.

_GySgt. Isaac Weatherby_, the sign outside the door read. _Camp Personnel Trainer and Supervisor._

Isaac grinned as he opened the door. He always got a kick out of how many words it took the clerks to say, "drill instructor."

He turned around as soon as he opened the door, hanging up his military-issue wide-brimmed camo hat on the door. He sighed, not looking forward to the unfinished report that was waiting for him.

He turned around, and blinked in surprise.

Sitting in _his _chair, behind _his _desk, in _his _office, was a young woman, around his age by the looks of it. She was slim and willowy, with blonde hair tied neatly back in a pony-tail and a startling pair of blue eyes. Under normal circumstances, Isaac would have found her quite attractive.

Normal circumstances, however, did not entail him stumbling upon her in his supposedly locked office.

As well as the fact that she was wearing the black uniform and cap of the Office of Naval Intelligence.

"Ah, Sergeant Weatherby," she said, standing up from his desk. "I've been expecting you. Glad to see you made it back in time."

"Who…wha-?" Isaac sputtered, his eyes blinking rapidly in shock as he attempted to understand what was going on.

"Lieutenant Lindsey Engen," she said, flashing her agency identification card. "Office of Naval Intelligence Section Three."

Isaac frowned. "Never heard of it."

"No one has," Lindsey replied. "That name never leaves this room, by the way." Without missing a beat, she strode past him taking a seat in one of the chairs near the door provided for visitors and crossing her legs, smoothing out her black skirt.

"Please, take a seat," she said, nodding towards Isaac's desk. "This may take a while."

"Wha…?" Isaac muttered, still flustered beyond belief as he walked over to his desk and sat down. His mind was going a million miles an hour as he attempted to sort out this unexpected turn of events. ONI officers were not exactly the most appreciated personnel by front-line soldiers; whenever they appeared, it was sure that secrets and backstabbing were to follow.

"I suppose I'll cut right to the chase," Lindsey said, leaning forward as she consulted something on a datapad. "You are indeed Gunnery Sergeant Isaac Weatherby, Service Number IW-2532-2030105, correct?"

"Yeah," Isaac answered as if in a daze.

"Excellent," she said cheerfully, stowing the datapad away. "Now, let's get started. The Office has-"

"Now hold on just a minute," Isaac interrupted, holding his hands up. "What's going on here?"

Lindsey cocked her head to the side, her expression curious. "I'm afraid I don't quite know what you mean, sergeant."

"You know damn well what I mean," Isaac growled, his patience thinning. "Spooks like you only show up if the shit's hit the fan or someone's getting arrested. And as far as I know, Reach isn't under attack, nor have I committed any crimes to the best of my knowledge-"

"As flattered as I am by the term 'spook', sergeant," Lindsey said, "I'm afraid that we don't have the time to exchange chit-chat. Rest secure, however, that I am not here to arrest you, nor to deliver any bad news."

Isaac raised an eyebrow, his expression unconvinced. "Right."

"The sarcasm is skillful but not appreciated, sergeant," Lindsey said coldly. "I don't have the time for a battle of wits."

"Neither do I, lieutenant," Isaac matched the ONI officer's statement with a glance at the clock on the wall. "In case you hadn't noticed, I have a hundred recruits to train."

"Not anymore," Lindsey said.

Isaac blinked. "What?"

Lindsey sighed, changing tactics. "You strike me as a logical man, Isaac," she said, and Isaac didn't miss the attempt at personalizing the conversation; there was definitely something strange going on here. "And believe me, I find that refreshing. In my line of work, it's rare to come across someone with the fortitude to speak their mind."

"I can imagine," Isaac muttered under his breath.

The spook apparently had sharper hearing than he had thought, as she continued in stride, "Thinly-veiled jabs aside, the situation is this: the Office, in conjunction with civilian researchers, has developed a chemical nerve agent of extreme lethality against the Covenant."

Isaac raised an eyebrow, intrigued. All military personnel knew how badly the fight against the fanatic aliens was going; it was one of the depressing realities of Isaac's job to realize that most of the recruits he was training to send out against the alien threat would not come back. If there was some secret weapon that could change that, he was more than interested. Although how that involved him, he had no idea. He was just a Gunnery Sergeant and drill instructor.

But there had been a time when he himself had held a rifle, had fought alongside his fellow men and women in defense of the human race…

Isaac shook his head violently. Those days were gone. Over. Done with. _Too many memories, _he thought. _Too many._

"Sergeant Weatherby?" Lindsey asked, her elegant brows furrowing with concern. "Are you alright?"

"Uh, yeah," Isaac said, breaking free from the demons of his past and scratching at his scalp. "Sorry. Please continue."

Lindsey regarded him with a jaundiced eye for a moment before doing so. "Very well. As I was saying, this nerve agent was a part of Project: HYDRA-that name never leaves this room, by the way-the goal of which was to create a universally-lethal chemical weapon to be used in extensive amounts against Covenant assets. That project was a smashing success, and we now have in our hands several hundred metric tons of the most lethal chemical agent known to man, waiting to be used."

Isaac raised an eyebrow, giving a small whistle of surprise. If this agent was truly as lethal as the spook claimed, it could turn the war on its head in a matter of months. Visions entered his mind of Elites writhing on the ground, falling in scores, their shielding systems rendered void by an enemy they could not see or fight, visions of boarding craft pumping deadly gasses through the life-support systems of Covenant vessels, knocking out the crew while allowing the ship to be captured intact, a veritable gold mine of technology.

After so many years of nothing but grim and grimmer news, it was enough to bring a smile to Isaac's face.

That smile vanished quickly, however. He would not be taking part in its deployment. His battlefield days were no more.

"That's wonderful," he said, leaning forward. "But what does this have to do with me."

"I was wondering when you'd ask that," Lindsey said, tapping a finger on the desk. "The UNSC Security Council has green-lit a deployment plan to test the CRX agent in a wartime scenario." She tapped a few buttons on her datapad, and then handed it to him face-up. Surprised, Isaac took it, running his eyes over the text on-screen.

Much of it was blacked out (Isaac wasn't so naïve as to think ONI would fully show no-doubt classified documents to a mere gunnery sergeant), but enough of it was visible so that he could get the gist of it:

_Operation: YPRES_

_Presented by ONI, commissioned by UNSC Security Council [Classified: BGX Directive]_

_Target: Covenant occupied mining world (see attached document EF-18392) designate: Argus IX_

_Operational Summary: _

_-Small detachment of special-mission-capable troops to embark upon UNSC [name redacted] _

_-Mission objectives (subject to change): small-scale deployments of nerve agent [CRX: see attached file CLASSIFIED: EYES ONLY] upon Covenant encampments to determine wartime effectiveness of the agent_

_-Spaceborne deployments of agent in vacuum-proof containers to test effectiveness as anti-ship weapon_

_-If in any case the primary mission objective should become compromised [as determined in paragraph six, below], use of the agent in a planet-wide area-denial deployment is authorized at the discretion of the mission commander_

"Do you understand?" Lindsey asked, and Isaac looked up.

"Everything that wasn't covered in black ink, yeah," he responded as he handed the datapad back to her waiting hands. He crossed his arms, leaning forward on the desk. "Don't get me wrong, I'm flattered that some ONI spook I've never seen from some top-secret section I've never heard of has decided to share doubtlessly-classified documents with me, but I still don't see how this has anything to do with myself."

If Lindsey had been annoyed at all by the sarcasm, she didn't show it. She took a deep breath, as if summoning her courage, and then spoke, her voice wavering: "The Office of Naval Intelligence has seen fit to assign you as a team leader on this operation. You will find your deployment orders in your personnel inbox."

For a moment, all was silent. Isaac blinked in sheer, utter surprise, his voice low and quiet. "Please tell me this is a joke."

"ONI SecThree does many things, sergeant," Lindsey said, her voice cool and aloof once again now that the cat was out of the bag, "but I can assure you that _joking _is not one of them. I am well aware of your previous…experiences…but the fact remains that recent combat sorties have severely depleted our ranks of veteran NCOs, and-"

"No," Isaac said.

"Excuse me?" Lindsey asked, and this time it was her turn to be surprised. People didn't say 'no' to the Office; it just didn't happen.

And yet here it was right in front of her.

"You heard me damn well the first time," Isaac growled, his voice low and dangerous, the tone of a cornered animal. "There is no way in hell I'm going back out into the field. Not after…_that_."

"All of us have had to make sacrifices-" Lindsey began, in an attempt to calm the sergeant.

"I watched my brother die right in front of me!" Isaac roared, his eyes blazing with fury at the woman who dared to come into his life, remind him of his most traumatizing moment, and then have the sheer, unmitigated _gall _to demand that he return to the field.

"So have countless others, Mister Weatherby," Lindsey said cautiously, aware that she was skating on thin ice. "But, that was not what caused you to be pulled from front-line duty."

"How do you know that?" Isaac hissed, leaning over the desk, his limbs trembling.

Despite the circumstances, Lindsey gave a small smile. "ONI," she said simply.

Isaac's eyes bulged outwards in rage, the edges of his vision beginning to tinge with red, gripping the siding of his desk with white knuckles. "That…" he hissed, "…was a perfectly normal reaction given the circumstances-"

"A count of gross insubordination, including drawing a weapon on a superior officer hardly counts as a _normal reaction_, Mister Weatherby," Lindsey said, her tone unperturbed. "You're lucky you got away with a discharge from active services and not a court martial."

"That half-assed excuse for a second lieutenant _got my brother killed!_" Isaac practically screamed. "He ordered their squad to charge a fucking heavy gun emplacement with no support!"

"Men under pressure make snap decisions," Lindsey said. "I'm sure he had only the best of intentions. Your brother's death, unfortunate as it may have been, was just that: unfortunate. It was hardly a reason to draw a gun and threaten-"

"_Unfortunate!" _Isaac roared. "_Unfortunate? My brother dies and you call it fucking unfortunate-!"_

"Isaac Eric Weatherby!" Lindsey barked, standing up to match Isaac's stance, if not his height. Isaac stopped his tirade, surprised that this petite little blonde had the guts to stand up to him when he was in his full drill-instructor rage.

Seeing that she had acquired his attention, Lindsey pressed her advantage before Isaac could regain the verbal offensive. "I read your file-_all of it_-in advance to this meeting. I am _well _aware of what happened that day, and I assure you that you have my deepest sympathies. I completely understand your reason for requesting a transfer out of active-combat duties, but the fact remains that _we are losing this war._ Our species is being annihilated as we speak.

"This mission could change that. This mission could put the UNSC on the offensive for the first time since Harvest, could reverse the fate of our entire race .We have a chance for the first time in nearly three decades to actually _win _this war. Not just scattered battles, not the odd skirmish, but to actually drive these alien bastards back to what undoubtedly-hideous holes they crawled out of."

Lindsey paused, a bit out of breath after that small speech. Even Isaac was impressed, one heavy eyebrow raised at the emotion in the ONI officer's voice.

Lindsey drew in a final breath. "I'm asking you now, for the sake of all humanity, to reconsider your decision."

Isaac winced, remembering the sheer anguish that he had felt the moment his brother had died and the rage that had followed afterwards, the rage that nearly led to his court martial.

He remembered the weeks of grieving that followed, the shell of himself that he had become. His parents had gotten the news too, of course, but a man in a suit coming to your door and delivering the news simply wasn't the same as _seeing your brother turn into ashes before your eyes_. The image played through his mind over and over, the electric-blue plasma bolts that had turned brave, young Alexander Carr Weatherby into so much dust flashing through his mind in an endless loop.

When Isaac had requested the transfer out of the front lines, he thought it had been for the best, and the second lieutenant he had threatened certainly shared that opinion, doing all he could to get the apparently insane Marine out of his command. Isaac had taken that grief and shoved it deep down, tried to bury it with the never-ending work of training new recruits. He had thought he could run from the pain, force it away to a remote corner of his mind.

And it had worked.

Until now. Until the woman in the black suit had come to his office and thrown his brother's death right back into his face.

And now it was all coming back.

Isaac slumped back into his chair, the white-hot fury he had felt mere moments before fading away like flames with nothing left to burn. He couldn't run, he realized. No matter where he went, the grief would follow him, be a part of him. That was irreversible, inexorable. All the excuses he had created in order to leave the lines, had been just that: a façade. A wall of justifications cobbled together to block out the pain.

Isaac looked up, at the young, prim woman that had brought his entire mental illusion tumbling down in the space of a few mere minutes, and strangely, did not feel rage. She was right, some part of him realized. You're wasting your life back here, cowering on Reach because you're too afraid to face the reality that Alex is gone, and he's never coming back. He owed more to humanity, owed more to Alex's memory than to merely block out the name and spend the rest of his days yelling at recruits, saying that he was doing his part.

Lindsey had remained silent during Isaac's internal struggle, realizing that she had just shattered years' worth of mental justifications. Any man would need time to think, to _reason_, after such an emotional release.

When Isaac finally spoke, his voice was strangely quiet and calm. "Why me?" he asked. "I'm just a gunnery sergeant. There's got to be thousands of others more qualified for a mission as critical as this."

"But very few that are not currently in frontline duty, or have experience with special forces personnel," Lindsey said, her tone gentler. "And very few that are as qualified as you."

Isaac frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I may be a spook, but I know my non-com ranks, sergeant," Lindsey said with just the barest trace of a smile. "People don't get to gunnery sarge by sitting on their ass and twiddling their toes." She leaned forward. "Your file says you're twenty-five, Isaac. One of the youngest men ever to reach such a senior rank. Don't try to tell me that you're not qualified."

Isaac blinked, never having thought of it that way. His rank had never really been a big deal to him; he knew plenty of guys that yucked it up and tossed it around at O-clubs and bars like it was going out of style, but that had never really appealed to him. All his rank did was allow him to yell at recruits with immunity, and that was a job he was good at. He had never paid his promotions much mind.

_Maybe I am ready for this. Maybe I have a chance for vengeance._

It was an appealing thought.

Isaac stood up, pacing to the back of his office where a small window allowed a view of the parade ground. Another file of recruits was lined up, doing jumping jacks under the watchful eye of their DI.

For the past years, this had been all he knew. This was his life.

But, as the spook had said, for once they had a chance to win this war. And he'd be damned before he said he didn't do everything he could to help.

"What of my class?" he asked. "Who will assume my place?" Even with his newfound determination, he wasn't simply going to desert the men and women he had worked so hard to train.

"Gunnery Sergeant Alan North will fill in for you," Lindsey replied immediately. "He's a veteran, and a good man. I'm sure you'd like him. I've forwarded his CSV to your computer, if you'd like to inspect his file yourself."

"That won't be necessary," Isaac said, turning around. A smile played around the edges of his mouth as he spoke, "Although I never thought I'd take the word of a spook at face value."

Lindsey grinned in response at finally having gotten through to him, and Isaac reflected on what a pleasant sight it was. "Excellent," she said. Collecting her items, she stood up. "Deployment orders should arrive tomorrow morning. After that you will have forty-eight hours to take care of all personal effects and issues before departing."

"Just like old times," Isaac said.

Lindsey smiled. "Indeed." She strode to the door, pausing as she opened it. "Goodbye, Isaac," she said. "And good luck."

And then she was gone.

Isaac sighed, sitting back down in his chair. In the space of a few minutes, his entire life had been turned upside down.

And yet, he didn't feel the slightest bit upset.

_I'm coming, brother._


End file.
